‘There he is,’ she pointed. ‘Black Heart.’
One of the figures close to Nathair was suddenly defined, a dark nimbus around him, as if he were standing before a doorway leading into darkness. The shadows of wings flared around him.
Calidus.
‘I see you, Black Heart,’ Nemain called down, her voice raw with the anger of ages. ‘You will not gain the cauldron so easily. We are not bairns to be tricked.’
Calidus stared back, saying nothing.
‘I do not understand you,’ Nathair shouted. ‘I am no black heart. I stand against Asroth and his darkness.’
‘You will not pass through the gates of Murias by honeyed words and lies,’ Nemain called out. ‘You ride with the Black Heart at your side – that is all I need to know.’
Nathair looked about him, frowning as he stared at Calidus.
‘She lies to you, Nathair,’ Calidus proclaimed, his voice ringing against the walls. ‘She serves Asroth, and would hold the cauldron for him.’
‘He does not know,’ Nemain whispered. She shook her head, pity sweeping the contours of her face. Then she raised her arms and began to speak.
The ravens were abruptly thick in the air, more joining them, swirling in a tight vortex, hundreds, thousands of them, more appearing all the time, bursting from cliff nests, flocking from the skies. She swept her arms forward, pointing at Nathair and Calidus, and the ravens flew at them, a gigantic spear of beak and feather and claw.
Calidus lifted one hand and the air shimmered. The ravens hit it, the first of them exploding into chunks, those behind spreading out about something almost invisible, a shield of air curving around Calidus and Nathair, protecting them and the warriors immediately behind. The birds swept about it, ploughing into the warriors behind. Screams rose up as these men were engulfed by the dark flock of ravens, horses rearing, warriors drawing swords and slashing the air.
They cannot reach Calidus or Nathair, but even so these birds will turn the battle. The Jehar cannot fall. Their numbers are needed if the cauldron is to be taken.
Uthas looked from Nemain to the birds, still more of them gathering and flying at the host before the gates. The air was thick with them, swirling all about the Jehar, blood and feathers exploding in a hundred different places as the Jehar tried to cut the ravens from the sky. Uthas saw horses and warriors collapsed on the roadside, torn bloody by the remorseless tide of beak and talon.
Now. I must do something, now.
He looked to Nemain, all her will focused on the scene before her. Beads of sweat stood on her brow, dripped down her face.
His hand drifted to his knife hilt, but still he hesitated. Nemain had been queen for close to three thousand years; how could he strike her down?
She stands in my way. In the way of my kin. She will see us all in our graves. Kill her.
He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling as if his whole life, two thousand years, had come down to this one moment.
I cannot kill her. I will talk to her, convince her.
‘Nemain . . .’
She didn’t hear him, her focus entirely upon the host at her gates. He said her name again, louder, and her gaze flickered towards him.
Then there was a fluttering sound from above. A raven drifted down, wings stretched to slow its descent. It landed on her shoulder and put its beak to her ear.
Is that Fech? It can’t be . . .
Nemain’s eyes snapped onto him, her mouth opening.
‘Sreng,’ she called.
Uthas stepped forwards, drawing his knife.
‘Greim,’ Nemain said, and Uthas felt the air grow thick about him, congealing like spilt blood. Around his limbs, his chest and hips, his face, slowing him, binding him. He tried to push through it, to force his knife into her flesh, but he moved as if through sand. Behind him he heard the clash of weapons, dim and muted – Sreng and Salach. He came to a halt, his fist quivering as he tried to move it, the invisible pressure constricting about him, a fist around his throat.
‘Fuasgail,’ he whispered with the last breath in his lungs. There was a moment when his life hung in the balance, a pressure growing in his head, a burning in his lungs, then the grip about him evaporated. He staggered forwards and lunged at Nemain, the clash of weapons behind him suddenly loud, deafening. Nemain grabbed his wrist and twisted, her other hand reaching for his throat. Her strength took him by surprise and he staggered backwards, managed to grasp her arm before her fingers fastened about his neck. Locked together, they reeled about the balcony, knocking chairs over, crashing into a table.
‘Traitor,’ she hissed at him, a depth of pain in her eyes that caused him to falter. The sound of combat stopped.